Whatever Remains, However Improbable
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." When Sherlock said that, he perhaps didn't take into account something quite so improbable as the return of magic to England.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock never panicked. It was an irrational response to a problem. Problems always had solutions, and running around gabbling incoherently was never the best way to find them. Panic was, to him, a sign of lesser intelligence, of a lower capacity for logical thought.

He would never admit that he had got pretty close, though.

His quick footsteps led him round the room once more; his brow furrowed as he squinted at every nook and cranny, at every irregularity in the floorboards. He did not even seem to pay any attention to the corpse in the middle. Indeed, his eyes seemed to avoid it consciously, where everyone else could not help but glance towards it.

It was a locked-room murder straight out of a novel. A moderately rich young man, single, with little family to speak of, found killed in his bathroom, of which the door had been locked from the inside. Window unbroken, and of the sort that couldn't be opened. There were numerous theories as to how the murderer had got in, none of would be particularly satisfying until the evidence had been found. It was a difficult case, certainly, but Lestrade hadn't thought that it would be beyond Sherlock Holmes.

He was therefore surprised to see the detective's face distorted by a grimace, and his footsteps suggestive of an immense frustration.

'Why the bathroom?' he said in that carrying voice of his.

'Element of surprise,' Lestrade replied, a little lamely, for about the hundredth time that morning. 'An opportunist, presumably.'

Sherlock shook his head, not out of disagreement with Lestrade, but out of disagreement with the entire case. They'd been here a couple of hours now. He ought at least to have found a lead. It looked from the outside like the simplest of cases, but it was turning out to be entirely baffling.

'Get that body to Molly Hooper,' Sherlock said at last, and, with a disdainful sniff, swished out of the house.

* * *

'Stumped, Sherlock?'

Mike Stamford's somewhat bitterly cheerful attitude was not helping. Sherlock always came to Bart's when he was thinking about how to solve a case, finding his own ramshackle "digs" not especially conducive to deep thought. But being at Bart's meant being around a number of other people who seemed to want to talk to him _all the damned time_ , Mike Stamford, one of the lab workers, among them.

'Of course I'm stumped. I wouldn't be setting fire to eyeballs with no good reason if I wasn't _stumped_.'

'Molly not brought you your tea this morning?' Stamford chuckled good-naturedly. 'I was just going to boil the kettle, actually, if you wanted some.'

'Black, two sugars,' Sherlock said vaguely. He watched Stamford disappear from his line of sight, and then, with a sigh, cast a half-melted eyeball onto the mat next to his Bunsen burner. This _damned_ case! It invaded his thoughts even when he tried to push it from his mind. He had got to the point of wondering if it had a blindingly obvious solution that he had missed. Locked-room murders were usually his favourite, because the police hated them, and because they nearly always had either a very simple or a very clever solution. But this one...

'Here's your tea.'

Sherlock murmured some vaguely grateful response, and sipped from the mug that had just been offered to him.

'Any news from Molly?'

'I just saw her in the kitchen, actually,' Stamford said. 'Says she's just got to the corpse in question... She'll be able to tell you more later.'

Sherlock nodded and gulped down the rest of his tea, an impressive achievement, as it was still almost scaldingly hot. He didn't seem to notice.

Stamford stood a little awkwardly for a long few moments, and then, absently going to sort out some papers at the end of the desk, said: 'Got any further with that – was it a flat you were looking at?'

'Yes. Baker Street... Martha Hudson offered to lower the price quite significantly, because, well, reasons... Still can't afford it.'

'I was thinking – you could go halves with someone.'

Sherlock's brow furrowed. 'What do you mean?'

'You know – get a flatmate. Someone else who can't afford a whole flat. You said it was two bedrooms, didn't you?'

Suddenly Sherlock laughed. 'You're not serious. Who'd want me as a flatmate?'

'Well,' Stamford said with a small chuckle.

Sherlock Holmes was a curious sort of man, he knew that much. After however long spent flitting between various jobs, solving crimes both at home and overseas, and spending a lot of time in a seedy sort of second life involving drugs and dirt and the wrong side of the city, he had re-appeared at Bart's, and seemed to be making a lot of offhand comments about housing prices in London. He wouldn't be an easy man to live with - but he would certainly be an interesting one.

'You might find someone,' Stamford said at length, and the topic was dropped for the moment.

* * *

Mrs Hudson greeted Sherlock with an unwelcome hug on which he didn't comment, and the offer of a cup of tea (which was, of course, most definitely welcome). Sherlock had to admit that he appreciated the apparent liking she seemed to have taken to him, even if it was expressed in what seemed to him like the most bizarre forms. He made sure to drop in on her occasionally, because she insisted, and because he wanted to keep his reservation on the flat for as long as possible.

This was why he went straight to Baker Street after leaving Bart's that afternoon, and now found himself in 221A, Mrs Hudson's flat, absently studying the wallpaper. The case was still on his mind. He hadn't been back to the scene of the crime, but he had endlessly wandered its double in his mind palace, and he was still half there.

'Two sugars, isn't it?' Mrs Hudson asked as she bustled around her kitchen.

Sherlock gave a positive-sounding grunt.

A minute later the landlady fed him his seventh cup of tea that day, and sat down with her own.

'So, you're still interested in 221B?' she asked.

'Of course,' Sherlock replied. 'I... well, actually, someone suggested to me this afternoon that I go halves on it. You know, to reduce the financial burden. Not that anyone would ever agree to share a flat with me, but – if they were – would you be able to accommodate that?'

Mrs Hudson nodded. 'There's a bedroom on the second floor that I can attach to 221B. If 221C is sold, the attic bedroom can be incorporated into that lease... Or something. I can make arrangements.'

'If 221C is sold...' Sherlock hesitated, studying Mrs Hudson closely. 'Someone's considering buying it?'

Mrs Hudson sipped at her tea. 'There was a young man looking at it earlier. He seemed quite interested.'

'Who is he? Would he prefer to go halves on 221B?'

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson laughed. 'I was actually telling him about you, you know. Your mannerisms, and things. Just things he might want to consider if he ends up living above you.'

Sherlock's eyes insisted that she continue.

'He didn't seem to mind. Said that he would be fine with it.'

'Then he'll be ideal. Tell him I'll go halves. If he doesn't bother me, I won't bother him. I can move in immediately.'

'Oh, Sherlock! You're very... quick. What if this poor young man doesn't want to go halves?'

'It's cheaper. Why wouldn't he?'

'Well, he'd be sharing the space with someone he didn't know.'

'Oh, he'll get to know me quickly enough.'

Mrs Hudson had to concede that he was right on that point. 'I'll tell him. But don't get too annoyed if he refuses. It's his choice.'

Sherlock nodded, just a little reluctantly. 'Very well.'

They both finished their tea in silence. Sherlock squinted at an irregularity in the wallpaper. At length he emerged from some sort of daydream, and said: 'What's this man's name?'

'Oh!' Mrs Hudson paused. 'It was something unusual... oh, what was it? I thought it sounded Welsh. It'll come to me. – Oh, of course, that's it. Merlin Ealdor.'

Sherlock agreed that this _was_ rather an unusual name. Though to be perfectly honest, the name Sherlock wasn't all that usual either. 'And he's young, you say?'

'I didn't ask, but he looks fairly young.'

'Very well. It doesn't really matter. I can live alongside most people. Tell him my offer. I'm pretty certain it's one he can't refuse.'


	2. Chapter 2

Oh God, she was there already. That shy smile, that light touch of mascara that made her look so damned – what was the word? He supposed that lesser mortals than him might call it _flirtatious_ – he just thought it was a bit annoying. Molly Hooper was in _his_ lab, and she was waiting for him.

'Results? Thank you,' Sherlock said briskly as he walked in and removed the sheet of paper from her hands.

Molly's lower lip pouted a little. Sherlock didn't notice. She had to grab his arm to get his attention; even then he looked exasperated to have been interrupted.

'Sherlock,' she said. 'Sherlock, this is serious. You have to come down with me. Come and look at that corpse.'

'I've looked at it enough,' Sherlock murmured, a little darkly.

'Sherlock, it's _weird_. Everyone's been talking about it.'

'Talking about _what_?'

'The burn mark across his chest.'

'The – what?' Sherlock's fingers slid from the microscope he had been adjusting. Something sparked in his eyes.

'You didn't turn the corpse over when you were at the crime scene, did you?'

'Anderson wouldn't let me touch it.'

Molly nibbled her lip. 'I'll show you. Come on.'

* * *

It was an ugly wound, that much could be said. Almost perfectly circular, but with jagged, seared edges, it spread across the man's chest and seemed to pierce the skin; it was as if he had been set aflame from the inside. Sherlock regarded it with a mixture of concealed horror and morbid interest. It irritated him that he hadn't been able to see this the previous day. Damn Anderson.

'Well?' he said.

'Well what?' asked Molly.

'Was it this that killed him, or the blow to the back of the head?'

'Both... or perhaps neither.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

'Some have suggested it was a combination of the two, because it seems to be a common opinion of all who have seen it that, though both are serious injuries, neither should have killed him – not as quickly as they did, anyway.'

'Are there any other wounds?'

'None.'

'No evidence of poisoning? – No, there wouldn't be,' Sherlock added, almost to himself. 'What could have made a burn like this?'

'That's the thing – we don't know.'

Sherlock straightened, and began to pace around the morgue. The corpse seemed to mock him still, lying there as the centrepiece to what seemed at present like an unsolvable mystery. A blow to the back of the head might have been a fairly plausible solution, but this burn mark had complicated matters immensely. And they hadn't even started on finding out _who_ was behind all this.

'I'm going home to think,' Sherlock said then, and, without a further word, he pulled on his coat and scarf and left.

* * *

He didn't go home. He didn't go anywhere close. He went for a brisk walk around London, pacing the streets without registering a single one of them, his footsteps quick and irregular, his eyes ever turned towards the pavement. Thoughts bubbled in his mind and threatened to spill out; his lips moved rapidly, forming words in silence; he was utterly perplexed.

At last, when he was beginning to tire of walking, and when he found he had come to a familiar sight, he decided to stop and see if Mrs Hudson was in. If nothing else, she would provide him with a much-needed cup of tea.

* * *

221A Baker Street was something of a refuge now for Sherlock. He liked the smell of tea and fresh flowers, he liked the minimalistic but tasteful decor, he had to admit that he liked the fuss that Mrs Hudson made of him. He rather preferred 221B, but this flat would have to do for the moment.

This time she greeted him even more eagerly than usual, ushered him into the little kitchen and said, without preamble:

'Merlin's interested in your offer of going halves. You're just in time – I said I would meet him at eleven.' Sherlock glanced at the clock – it was just gone ten to. 'I rang your mobile but you didn't pick up.' She frowned a little accusingly at him.

'I didn't notice it ringing,' Sherlock said vaguely.

'Well, I was going to ask you if you could come over, but you're here anyway, so it doesn't matter.' She began to busy herself with making tea.

The tea was ready, and Sherlock had just taken his first sip, when there was a knock at the door. Mrs Hudson went to answer it, and, after greeting whoever was behind it, brought in a young man who was evidently Merlin Ealdor.

He was a tall gangly fellow, with difficult dark hair and an easy-going sort of smile; he greeted Sherlock in a friendly manner, and thanked Mrs Hudson profusely for the tea that she poured him. Then he looked straight towards the detective, curious as to the character of his potential flat-mate.

Sherlock, for perhaps the first time in his life, was astonished by the man's eyes.

He had made a quick analysis of this young man without seeing directly into those intriguing orbs, guessing him to be intelligent and a little scholarly with a wicked sense of humour, among other things. Yet one's eyes can often be the greatest indicator of true personality, and here were eyes unlike any that Sherlock had seen before.

On the surface they were bright, clever, perhaps slightly naïve. Within they seemed to exude a deep wisdom such as a man of his age should not have possessed; they were almost haggard, as if he had seen far too much – these were certainly not the eyes of an innocent man. Sherlock had to look away, for he was perfectly confounded by them. It was a sensation he had never felt before, and a sensation he found he didn't like in the slightest. Already the man seemed as much of a mystery as the murder he had been investigating.

Ignoring all the thoughts that sprang to mind, Sherlock merely shook his hand and introduced himself. Merlin returned the gesture, grinning almost inanely, as if it was his natural expression. It probably was. People with that much hiding behind their eyes had a tendency towards a clumsily childish outward appearance.

'You're a detective, I hear,' Merlin continued. 'That must be fascinating...'

'Yes,' said Sherlock curtly. He didn't much like small talk.

'Well, it's nice to hear you're on the right side of the law,' Merlin chuckled. 'I'm studying. Postgraduate, you know.'

'English literature,' Sherlock murmured.

'It was the only subject left,' Merlin said, a little cryptically. 'Anyway, I'll try not to tread on your toes. I read most of the time. Sometimes I talk to myself, but –' He halted himself, as if he had said too much.

'The violin,' said Sherlock then, starting from his thoughts. 'I play the violin. I hope you don't mind.'

'Oh, I like the violin,' Merlin said. 'Played well, anyway.'

'Good,' said Sherlock. 'And my sleep schedule is a bit haphazard, and sometimes I look like I'm asleep but I'm not – that is, I can live in my thoughts for days on end – will it trouble you not to disturb me if I am like that?'

Merlin looked a little surprised, but shook his head.

'Oh, our Sherlock's a bit of an oddball. I think I mentioned,' Mrs Hudson said.

Merlin laughed. 'So am I, if I'm honest. Maybe we'll get on.' He shrugged.

'Is that a deal then?' asked Sherlock, holding out his hand.

'Flat-mates,' Merlin said, shaking.

'Flat-mates,' Sherlock agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

It did not take long for Mrs Hudson to work out that Merlin and Sherlock were perhaps not the perfect pair of flat-mates. It wasn't that they didn't get on: they didn't interact with each other much, but it was clear that they managed not to tread on each others' toes. Nor was it that they got on... well, _too_ well. No, it was more that they were both hopelessly incompetent in the normality department.

Sherlock stayed up all night living in his own thoughts. Merlin had a tendency to walk the city at odd hours, sometimes from dusk until dawn. This meant that both of them would sleep in late in the mornings, and Merlin would find himself running to get to his lectures whilst Sherlock sleepily awaited Mrs Hudson's breakfasts. (She had said many times that she wasn't their housekeeper, but seeing as they were both incapable of remembering to eat breakfast, she had to give them a bit of a nudge in the right direction.)

Both of them could cook. Neither of them did.

Sherlock owned a gun. Merlin apparently owned something that could wreck wallpaper in a similar fashion, though it must have been silent, because Mrs Hudson never heard it.

Sherlock spent hours agonising over the details of his latest case – apparently still the locked-room murder, which he didn't seem to have solved yet. Merlin spent hours agonising over some ancient mouldering literature specimen.

All in all, it was a bit odd.

The one thing that never occurred in 221B Baker Street was conversation. Yes, if Sherlock and Merlin crossed paths they would acknowledge each other – remarkable coming from Sherlock, perhaps, but merely an indication that he didn't dislike his flat-mate. But nor did they ever speak to each other. It was beginning to look unlikely that they would never truly know each other.

That is, until one particular Wednesday afternoon, when the silence of the flat was broken by a sharp _bing_.

Sherlock, who hadn't been expecting a text, sat up in surprise and reached for his phone, glancing over at Merlin, who was still poring over his dusty old book.

 _The Strand. Similar murder to last time. Writing on wall. Come asap. DI Lestrade_

His curiosity piqued, Sherlock went and flung his coat over his shoulders. Merlin looked up.

'A case?' he asked.

Sherlock nodded. 'Hopefully one that will bring me closer to solving the other one.'

And with that he went from the room.

* * *

There was already a cohort of police cars blocking off a large section of the Strand, and tape all around one of the houses. Sally Donovan was standing outside this house, and cast a scathing glance towards the detective.

Just as he was crossing the threshold of the doorway, she turned to him, and called out:

'Isn't that guy you're sharing with called –'

And thinking better of it she grimaced and turned away.

Sherlock didn't bother asking her what she had been about to say, though he yearned to know. He heard footsteps on the floor above him, raced upstairs, and found Lestrade and a couple of others standing around a body. This one was face-up, and from the marks on the clothes it was evident that this corpse had been burnt in a similar fashion to the last one. There was also caked blood around a wound to the head.

But it wasn't this that drew their attention. It was the silver letters on the wall, spelling out a word that made Sherlock stop in his tracks.

 _Merlin_.

He caught something about Arthurian legend from one of the police officers who had followed him in. It was certainly a strange word to daub on the scene of a crime. A name, indeed. The name of a wizard of ancient legend – and Sherlock's new flat-mate.

He quickly dispelled the image of Merlin Ealdor from his mind, and called out to Lestrade, demanding the basic details of the case. It seemed that it was almost exactly the same as the last one – the popular theory was that it was the same murderer. There was no solid evidence, but few believed otherwise. Already a couple of forensics officers were studying the body, the writing, the room, hoping to find more similarities with the other case.

Sherlock walked around the body several times. It belonged to an unremarkable man. His eyes traced a winding path around the room. _Old. Few friends. No relatives. Lonely._ It was this succession of words that began to prey on him. This man had been vulnerable, certainly. An easy target. But why such a violent murder? And why that name, daubed across the wall in huge silver letters?

He straightened, cast a glance towards Lestrade. It was obvious that the detective inspector was a little perplexed. Perhaps he realised that the other case was still unsolved, and that this one presented the same difficulties. Here, that word would probably be the only thing to go on.

He looked at it again. _Merlin._ Capital letters. So straight they could have been a computer font. Done out in some bold substance – acrylic paint? No – there weren't any drips on the –

There weren't any drips on the carpet. Nor did the letters run in the slightest. Sherlock furrowed his brow. If the letters had been painted, it would have been painstaking work to do it that immaculately. Criminals who painted notes usually dripped all over the place, and their handwriting tended to be terrible as well.

This was perfection. Companies would have hired this person to design their logos, had he not been, well, a murderer.

'Why Merlin?' Sherlock asked the room.

'Well,' said Lestrade, 'either it's a reference to the tales of King Arthur,' (it was plain he thought this a bizarre hypothesis) 'or –'

'– or it's a message to someone,' Sherlock finished impatiently.

'C'mon, how many people do you know called Merlin?'

'Just the one,' Sherlock said, mostly to himself. He drew his phone out and drafted a message; after a moment's hesitation, he sent it. Then he scanned the room again and waited for a response.

* * *

 _Why is your name on a wall in a house on the Strand? SH_

Merlin furrowed his brow at this curious text. He assumed SH to be Sherlock. He straightened, knowing Sherlock to be at a crime scene. It took him more than a moment to register the actual content of the message.

'My name...?' he wondered out loud, and replied:

 _What do you mean? Merlin_

A minute later:

 _House on the Strand. Your name is painted on the wall. Did you really need me to explain that? SH_

Merlin ignored this rather rude reply, and said instead:

 _First name or second name or both?_

 _First. SH_

 _Probably not me specifically then. :-)_

Merlin, relieved, turned back to his book.

It was hardly a few minutes later when he received a message that read:

 _Can you translate Old English? SH_

 _Yes... why? Merlin_

 _Come here and translate some then. SH_

* * *

Merlin took the Tube to the Strand, and entered the long street just as one of the police vans was pulling away. He hoped that it contained the body. He hadn't much wanted to see the body. With a slight shudder, he made his way to the police cordon, gave his credentials, and was (somewhat reluctantly, it has to be said), let into the building in question.

Sherlock was standing over a sheet of paper that had been unfolded on a coffee-table. Upon it were recognisable letters spelling out unrecognisable words – unrecognisable, that is, to those who are limited to Modern English.

Merlin, however, knew them immediately. He read the message, gave a cry, and sat down involuntarily.

'What is it? What does it say?' Sherlock insisted.

Merlin composed himself, drew a breath, and said quietly:

'It says... "Merlin, I'm coming. Be ready. Remember Camlann."'

'Camlann?...' Sherlock said.

'Isn't that the battlefield where King Arthur died?' cut in Anderson, who had been standing to one side, but now looked far too pleased with himself. 'Yes, it was. Camlann. Haven't you read the stories?'

'Shut up, Anderson,' Sherlock said, but he had scarcely got the words out when Merlin said:

'No... he's right.'

Sherlock glared at both of them.

'Camlann,' continued Merlin, 'was the name of the field on which Arthur – King Arthur, of Camelot – met Mordred in his final battle. They ended up killing each other.'

'And why should this note refer to it?' asked Sherlock, who was trying desperately to hide his annoyance. His ignorance of Arthurian legend seemed painfully obvious.

'It's as I feared,' murmured Merlin, not answering the question. He looked over the note once more, seemed to shudder a little, and then ran from the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was breathless when he at last arrived at the door to 221 Baker Street. He had run after Merlin, believing that the boy would be unable to match his own remarkable speed, only to find that Merlin was rather faster than he had expected. He had entered the flat and closed the door even before Sherlock had reached the step.

Trying to hide the fact that he was short of breath, the detective raced upstairs, to find Merlin sitting calmly in his armchair, his dusty old tome opened on his lap, absorbed in the browned fading writing.

'Merlin –' Sherlock placed his hand on the doorframe to steady himself. 'What was that about?'

He flicked his eyes upwards. 'England's in danger. I'm the only one who can stop it. I didn't want to panic anyone so I came back here before they asked questions.'

It was this statement that made Sherlock suddenly overwhelmingly curious about the book, but, also from this statement, he caught Merlin's wish to be left alone. His hand slid slowly down the doorframe. Merlin shot him a final glance before disappearing back into his book.

* * *

The text that Molly sent Sherlock later that day, just as she was going home from work, informed him that the damage to this second corpse was exactly the same as that to the first. Nobody had yet worked out what had caused the horrific burns that, furthermore, seemed entirely unnecessary.

The working hypothesis was that internal damage sustained by the wounds to the head, or the fall that the victims seemed to have taken, had been the cause of fatality. This, of course, was not remotely satisfying, but unless an alternative was found, that was all they had to go on.

Sherlock wondered whether to share the results with Merlin, but, as he entered the living-room, he found the boy still deeply engrossed in his book. He wondered whether that was what he himself must look like when he lost himself in his mind-palace. Knowing that he wouldn't like to be disturbed in such a state, he left Merlin alone, made himself a cup of tea, and came to sit quietly in his own armchair.

It had not, of course escaped Sherlock's attention that Merlin seemed to know more about the case than the rest of them. He recalled the strange message, which the boy had pocketed on running from the crime scene. He recalled the bizarre suggestion that this Merlin was, indeed, the one referred to by the note and by that curious graffiti. If that was true, it would hint that Merlin was mixed up in the series of crimes.

He was not, however, the perpetrator. He had been genuinely astonished by the appearance of his name, by the note – the fear on his face said that it was some enemy of his who was working against him. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to _question_ him, to get to the bottom of this ridiculous matter –

'Evening, Sherlock,' said Merlin, emerging quickly from his reverie.

Sherlock started. He had been himself slipping into a bit of a daydream. 'Ah. You've finished. I need to ask you –'

'About my involvement in the case?' Merlin said with a hollow chuckle. 'I don't know myself. Not yet. All I know is that all of these events are a warning.'

'A warning of what?'

'A storm on the horizon...' He left this poetic line hanging in the air, which was crackling a little with anticipation.

'Can't you at least give me a straight answer?' Sherlock said, exasperated.

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you the whole story,' Merlin shrugged.

'Try me,' Sherlock said.

'It's not very probable,' Merlin said lamely.

'In such a case as this, when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,' Sherlock said. 'There is little I won't believe.'

'Do you believe,' said Merlin, and faltered a little, 'in magic?'

'Magic,' said Sherlock flatly.

'Magic,' Merlin repeated, unfazed.

'Don't be ridiculous,' Sherlock said.

'You said you could believe anything –'

'I said that there was _little_ I wouldn't believe. Not _nothing_.'

'And why isn't magic believable?'

Sherlock could not help but scoff. 'It's the stuff of fairy-tales. It goes against the laws of physics. The laws of nature. It's an invention, a simple invention to make stories more interesting, or to fuel the wild fantasies of –'

'Can you disprove it?' Merlin asked, cutting him off.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and did not reply.

'It's far easier,' Merlin contemplated, 'to prove something than to disprove it. You cannot show me a lack of evidence for the existence of magic. I however can show you evidence _for_ its existence.'

Sherlock could not help but agree utterly with his logic. The man was turning out far more intelligent than he had at first assumed (which wasn't, to be perfectly honest, saying much). Yet he still could not help a small incredulous smirk coming onto his face. 'Very well. Show me your evidence.'

Merlin raised one eyebrow, giving his face a rather mischievous look that Sherlock wasn't sure he had expressed before. 'One thing: confirm to me that magic isn't against the law.'

'I doubt there are even laws in place that take magic into account,' Sherlock replied, a little drily, after a moment.

'And if it was,' Merlin said, his voice becoming a little more serious, 'would you report me for what I am about to do?'

There was some primeval worry within that voice, something bordering on panic, that Sherlock found himself drawn by. Merlin was turning out to be an enigma. And he hadn't even done any magic yet.

Swayed by this very curiosity, Sherlock said, 'No, of course not. Now prove the existence of magic to me.'

He could scarcely believe he'd said it, he could believe it even less when Merlin, now deathly serious, placed his book on the coffee-table and stood. After a moment of contemplation he removed his jacket. Sherlock reckoned that this was just for dramatic effect. The jacket fell onto the chair; Merlin straightened, turned, extended his arms towards the dry and dusty fireplace.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. He guessed what Merlin was about to do. He vaguely registered the absence of wood in the hearth.

And, without warning, Merlin began to speak in a low and carrying voice; the air in the room crackled; he released his hold on the words, on this apparent spell, on the magic within him –

A fountain of blue flames shot up from nowhere, spreading their tongues far up the chimney before settling in a shower of sparks to a warm golden orange. They seemed to hover in the air, for there was nothing to fuel them but whatever Merlin had produced.

Sherlock felt a little faint. He put it down to the heady, suffocating atmosphere that seemed to linger for a moment before dissipating into nothing. Merlin, entirely unaffected, turned to gauge Sherlock's reaction.

He did not even need to ask him what his opinions were on the matter. Sherlock, normally so reserved, now wore his emotions on his sleeve. He looked utterly astonished. Perhaps he even looked a little admiring, despite himself.

'Whatever remains,' Merlin said, with a small grin, 'however improbable, must be the truth. Magic exists, Sherlock. You'll need to fit it into your hypotheses.'

'Yes,' Sherlock said vaguely. 'Yes, evidently.'

And though he felt greatly exhilarated and satisfied by what he had just seen, he could not help but feel as if things had suddenly got a lot more complicated.


	5. Chapter 5

'You can't tell anyone I have magic.'

He had said it about fifty times now, and Sherlock understood completely why Merlin might want to keep his unusual talents hidden. Though it wasn't illegal – yet – to perform magic in England, he would attract far too much attention if he made it known that he could, and Sherlock knew all about avoiding unwanted attention.

But there was still one thing that was irritating him about it, and eventually, finding a break in Merlin's incessant chatter (probably some sort of nervous tic), he asked:

'If you are so intent on keeping your secret from everyone... why do you call yourself Merlin?'

Merlin grinned suddenly. 'Because it's so obvious that the truth remains hidden in plain sight. Besides, who will ever consider the hypothesis that anyone can do magic, even a man called Merlin?'

Sherlock had to admit that he had a point.

The pair had just emerged from the Barbican tube station, and were walking towards the imposing structure of St Bartholomew's Hospital. They had not continued their conversation on the Tube train, for it had been crowded, and they had been afraid of being heard, but now that they were above ground, both of them, who had before been so silent and lost in their own thoughts, found that now they did not have enough time to say all they wanted to each other. Curiosity mounted in them both: such is the situation when magic comes into the question.

But Sherlock did not like to talk, and so was secretly pleased when they entered the hospital and were reduced to silence by the long white corridors and respect for those contained within the many rooms.

Eventually they arrived at the morgue, and found two people in there; one of them, a small friendly-looking man, immediately stopped talking to Molly as they entered, and, with a brief wave and glance towards the newcomers, left the room.

Sherlock did not ask out loud who it had been, but his eyes spoke for him, and Molly laughed.

'Oh, that's John Watson. An army doctor. He's just started working at Bart's... used to study here. Mike remembers him.'

'Just returned from Afghanistan?' asked Sherlock. Molly nodded. Sherlock hesitated a moment, said very crisply, 'He's not your type,' and strode over to the waiting corpse.

Merlin, it was plain, was no stranger to dead bodies. He did not even flinch as the plastic was pushed aside to reveal a staring unseeing face and cold white skin, instead leaning in closer, studying it with a morbid curiosity. Molly uncovered the man's chest: now the mysterious burn mark was revealed.

Merlin fought back a shudder that began to crawl down his spine. He studied the wound for scarcely a moment, and then said: 'And you say that the other man had the same injury?'

Molly and Sherlock both nodded.

'Do you know what it was caused by?' asked Molly, nibbling her lip a little.

Merlin exchanged glances with Sherlock. The detective furrowed his brow, and then nodded slightly. Not entirely reassured by this response, Merlin turned back to Molly and said:

'Yes. I do. It was caused by magic.'

Molly, of course, looked completely incredulous. Her eyes widened, and she looked to Sherlock as if hoping that he, too, found this response ridiculous. But the detective seemed to take him seriously.

Molly tried to laugh it off. 'Oh, come on, magic doesn't exist. If you don't know, it doesn't –'

At this Merlin, with scarcely a blink, reached forwards a little and plucked a small red tulip from thin air. He presented it to a slightly baffled Molly, who did not take it.

'Magic exists,' Merlin said, very simply, 'and if I managed to persuade Sherlock that it does, then I can persuade you. I can understand if you're sceptical. You just have to – suspend your disbelief for a bit. If I tell you that magic caused this wound, well – I know whereof I speak.'

Molly stared at him. Then at Sherlock. Then at Merlin again.

'I speak as a survivor of the same spell that these men suffered.'

It was hopeless. Molly, more rational, it seemed, even than Sherlock, did not in the least believe him. Reluctant to show her any more proof in the relatively busy atmosphere of St Bart's, and slightly regretting telling her to start with, Merlin shrugged and said:

'In that case, just promise me you won't tell anyone what I said, or – what I did.'

And, with a small smile, he pressed the tulip into Molly's hand and left the room.

* * *

They had just caught the Metropolitan line service, and were speeding back to Baker Street, when Sherlock's phone buzzed. He slid it from his pocket, read the text message that had showed up on the screen, and, without a word, passed it to Merlin.

 _Parliament Sq Gn. Come and look at this one. Bring Merlin. Greg_

'Greg –?'

'Lestrade. The detective inspector.'

A change and a short detour later, the pair found themselves just across from the Houses of Parliament. The large lawn behind the famous building, which was flanked by statues of various noted politicians, and which was usually filled with tourists, had been cordoned off; there was a line of police vans and cars around it, and the tourists were being kept a good distance back, on the opposite side of the road. Sherlock presented his I.D. to one of the police officers on the edge of the cordon, and they both hurried to whatever was being concealed at the centre of the garden.

It was another corpse. Sherlock had expected that. He hadn't, perhaps, expected it to be so grossly disfigured as to be almost recognisable as human. The man – if it was indeed a man – looked as if he was suffering from some grotesque disease that caused excessive amounts of skin to grow from his face, his arms – everywhere that was exposed, indeed.

'What –' Sherlock could not finish his sentence.

Lestrade swallowed. 'Exactly. The witnesses,' he glanced towards one of the vans, where a woman wrapped in a blanket was sobbing into the shoulder of one of the policemen, 'all say that he didn't look like this before – before he started flailing around and collapsed. That woman over there turned him over and his face had gone like that. He seemed to have died almost instantly.'

'And the connexion to the others is – what?'

Lestrade, leaning over, very carefully rolled up the corpse's sleeve. There on his arm, the word _MERLIN_ had been etched into the skin – just before death, it seemed, judging by the rudimentary scab that had just begun to form.

Sherlock winced, and turned away for a moment. It was then that he saw that Merlin had hung back, standing to one side, and was too far away to see any of the mutilation to the corpse.

'Merlin,' he called. 'Merlin, we need you.'

 _Or rather, whoever killed this man seems to need you_ , he could not help but think.

Merlin ran over – and almost fell over backwards when he saw the corpse. His expression then was one of the utmost astonishment and terror.

'What is it?' asked Sherlock urgently.

'I've seen this before,' said Merlin in a strangled voice. 'Before – when –'

'What?' asked Lestrade.

'It's a declaration of war,' Merlin stammered out. 'And the trademark of – no, not her –'

'Who? Who's _her_?' Sherlock insisted.

'You know some of the legend of King Arthur, don't you?' Sherlock nodded after a moment. 'Well, do you remember Morgan le Fay, also known as Morgana?'

'...Yes,' Sherlock and Lestrade said, almost at the same time.

'Well,' said Merlin simply, 'her.'


	6. Chapter 6

_Everything's gone strange. Merlin claims magic involved. Most recent murder is "declaration of war". Please investigate._

Sherlock didn't send the text. He had addressed it to Mycroft, but he could already imagine his brother's reaction. Mycroft Holmes would be as incredulous as he had been. Indeed, he might think that his little brother had finally cracked. Anyway, he didn't yet know who Merlin was – well, not formally. No doubt he already knew all about him. But they hadn't met.

And, furthermore, Mycroft knew very little about this case.

He had addressed the text to himself, really. Sitting at the feet of the statue of Abraham Lincoln, he surveyed the lawn and the Palace of Westminster from a distance, without really seeing them. The area had been cordoned off, so there wasn't the usual constant stream of traffic crawling round the corner towards the Thames; it seemed curiously silent.

Merlin was still talking with Lestrade. The detective inspector didn't look terribly convinced by whatever it was he was saying. The mutilated corpse was hidden beneath a blanket. The witnesses were still sobbing in the van. It looked like any other crime scene, but Sherlock knew that it wasn't. Normally that thought would have exhilarated him. Today it did the opposite.

Sherlock Holmes didn't like feeling defeated. He especially didn't like feeling that a case was beyond him: that was what annoyed him so much about this one. That gangly English Lit student knew more about it than he did, and that was just salt in the wound. He could however sense, with whatever subconscious sense it is that deals with the supernatural, that something wasn't at all right with the whole business, and that Merlin's statement about a declaration of war might not be so far-fetched as everyone seemed to think.

He glanced up at Abraham Lincoln, who just smiled enigmatically at him, and went over to where a police officer had left his bicycle. He needed to pay a visit to a certain club on Pall Mall.

* * *

The crash of a bicycle being thrown against a bollard perhaps made a couple of the gentlemen look up, but none of them really reacted. They did not even deign to glance towards the scruffy young man whose presence always seemed to precede some great disturbance, and let him go straight to the Strangers' Room (though of course he was far from a stranger to the Diogenes Club), where he would meet his brother, the Acting King of England, or whatever it was he called himself these days.

The gentlemen of the Diogenes Club didn't care for Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. They much preferred good pipes, fine tobacco and a copy of their newspaper of choice, freshly ironed. Such is the life of the rich and peculiar.

Mycroft Holmes was of course a member (and possibly founder, nobody could quite recall) of the Club. But he smoked cigarettes, and didn't much care for newspapers, and so on this particular morning, when his briefcase looked decidedly empty, he welcomed any excuse to leave the lounge, even if it was to talk to his brother.

Sherlock Holmes had arrived fresh from a case. Probably that disturbance over by the Houses of Parliament. He had come by bicycle, which surprised Mycroft – it was probably the quickest way of reaching Pall Mall from Parliament, but Sherlock didn't much like riding, and would have forgotten long ago how to if it wasn't one of those unforgettable skills. The shambolic nature of his arrival suggested that he was in a hurry. But now, sitting in a plush chair in the Strangers' Room, his eyes travelling carelessly over the panelled wall, Sherlock Holmes did not seem in much of a hurry to do anything.

'We are in the Strangers' Room; talking is at least permitted, if not necessarily preferable,' Mycroft reminded him after a minute.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and, after thinking for a moment, slid a handful of photographs across the table.

Mycroft picked up the first, which showed the burn mark on the first corpse. He grimaced almost imperceptibly. 'I was aware of the details of the case.'

He picked up the second, which was of the second corpse, and which incorporated the mysterious message etched on the wall. 'I was aware of this as well.'

Then his hand fell on another of the photographs, which was an instant Polaroid one straight from the most recent crime. It showed the grisly detail of the mutilated face, and the way the shadows fell could only emphasise the excess skin that seemed to have grown in an instant on his visage. Mycroft's own face contorted. It was evident that he had seen nothing like it before.

'This is the case at Parliament Square?'

Sherlock nodded.

'And the details of the case –?'

'The witnesses say that the victim was struck by some sort of fit. He collapsed face first. When one of the witnesses turned him over, he looked like that. He had died almost instantly. She confirms that he did not look like that before.'

This final statement was the most important. Mycroft sat up straight, his jaw set.

'My new flatmate, Merlin Ealdor, is currently at the scene. He came with me earlier. His reaction to the murder was – surprising,' Sherlock continued, and summarised in a few words what had happened and what Merlin had said. When Mycroft's eyes questioned him, he added a few comments about the other crimes. Mycroft had evidently realised the connexion with the name on the wall, because he fixed his eye on that photograph for a long while.

'We are left with two hypotheses,' Sherlock said. 'Both of them would suggest that Merlin is involved with the series of crimes, either on "their" side, or against "them". One hypothesis states that this is a case about which we don't know enough, and which has a perfectly rational foundation. The other states that – well, Merlin is telling the truth.'

Mycroft did not quite look sceptical at this remark, but his eyebrow twitched slightly. It occurred to Sherlock that he hadn't told Mycroft about Merlin performing magic in front of him. He wasn't sure he ought to. He still couldn't quite believe it himself.

But, after a moment, dismissing whatever doubtful thoughts had crept into his mind then, he said simply: 'A perceived declaration of war, in whatever circumstances it was made, ought to be taken seriously. You will accompany me to Parliament Square, I presume?'

And with that he got up and left the room. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock pocketed the photographs and followed him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks so much to all those supporting this story! I hope you'll continue to enjoy it.**

* * *

When the black car pulled up at the traffic lights next to the Gardens, Merlin was still trying to explain the situation to Lestrade. He felt like he had spent half an hour talking to a brick wall. The detective inspector's face seemed permanently moulded to a moderately surprised, mostly disbelieving expression; those around them had given up on the conversation a long while ago, and wandered off to other parts of the Gardens. The body had been carted into the van a while back. The arrival of the car was, therefore, something of a welcome distraction.

'I'm sorry; I've left your bicycle at the Diogenes Club,' Sherlock called to one of the police officers, as he clambered out of the sleek vehicle that Mycroft had had on hand. He was closely followed by his brother.

'Mr Holmes,' Lestrade called out in greeting, disentangling himself from his increasingly more awkward conversation. Merlin ran over to Sherlock, studying the new arrival with curiosity.

'Your brother?' he asked after a moment. When they tried, but failed dismally, to deny it, he grinned. 'I thought you looked similar.'

The Holmes brothers exchanged scathing glances.

Mycroft coughed. 'I presume you are Merlin Ealdor. I would appreciate it if you would describe to me all that you know about this incident, and all of the other incidents that Sherlock has associated with it.'

Therefore Merlin gave a fairly short, but thorough, narration of what he had already said in snippets.

Mycroft fingered the handle of his umbrella. Like everyone else, he was extremely reluctant to believe him, but for the moment saw no other alternative.

'Assuming your hypothesis to be correct,' he said, 'what would be the best thing to do next?'

Merlin furrowed his brow. 'It's no hypothesis, if you don't mind me saying. – But when this last happened, we were given a couple of weeks, I think, to prepare. We didn't really know what for. We ended up meeting Morgana's army in battle on a plain – the plain of Camlann –'

Sherlock recalled the mention of Camlann from a while ago, when a mysterious note addressed to Merlin had brought the student into this matter. There seemed to be a clear sequence of events and references, which was uncommon when it came to complete lies.

'And the target was –?'

Merlin shrugged. 'The king... the kingdom.' His eyes suddenly turned to the ground, and he fell silent.

'How do you suggest we locate the source of these threats?'

'I can help you,' said Merlin at last, 'and I shall help you. I don't know quite what I'm looking for, but I probably have a better idea than anyone else.'

Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged glances.

'Very well,' said Mycroft. 'Follow me, Mr Ealdor.'

And, swinging his umbrella on his arm, he led the way back to the car. The two got in, and swept away. Sherlock watched them until they had rounded the corner out of sight; then he said:

'This is madness. I fear I shall not be needed any longer in this case.'

'Well, that's something I never thought I'd hear, at any rate,' murmured Lestrade, and left Sherlock to head off towards the Westminster tube station. He couldn't help but notice that the detective had a dismal, almost detached air about him. To be perfectly honest, he couldn't blame him.

* * *

'I'd like a print-out of the official details of these three cases,' Mycroft called as he strode into his office.

Anthea looked up and raised one eyebrow. 'I'm not your secretary,' she called back, not in bad humour, swinging her legs down from the desk and walking off. She didn't even notice Merlin's presence.

Merlin stopped a few paces into the room, and noticed with regret that his shoes had been scuffing mud into this immaculate carpet. The entire office was completely unruffled, and he almost feared to breathe. He had never seen anywhere so tidy and organised. It was, certainly, a stark contrast to the mess of any room that Sherlock had anything to do with: the brothers were less similar than they looked.

'I presume that I can trust you with the location of this office,' Mycroft said curtly. 'It must not be revealed under any circumstances. – Anyway: to the point of this journey. I need to know precisely what to prepare for, and when.'

'I...' stammered Merlin, 'I'm not sure I can be of too much help in that regard.'

Mycroft shrugged off this comment. 'No matter... Tell me what you know. Anything is better than nothing.'

'Forgive me for asking,' said Merlin, 'but should I have heard of you? Are you someone important?'

'I am the British government,' replied Mycroft, 'and no, it is good that you have not heard of me. But come: we're wasting time. Tell me everything you know. And quickly.'

* * *

Sherlock felt hopeless again, and he didn't like it. He felt so hopeless that he had stooped to using the Tube, instead of hailing a taxi as usual. Fortunately it was fairly quiet at this time of day, giving him some precious thinking time before he had to get off at Baker Street.

He was greeted by Mrs Hudson the moment he entered 221 Baker Street. She emerged from her flat, distractedly running a tea-towel over a wet plate, and said: 'There was a client came when you were gone. I said that I didn't know when you would be back, but he said he was willing to wait. I've left him on the landing, with a cup of tea. He looked as if he needed it. You weren't wanting any tea, were you?'

'Black,' Sherlock muttered, 'two sugars.'

'Are you all right, Sherlock?' she said, fawning over him a little. 'You're very pale.'

'It's my normal colour, I think,' said Sherlock.

'No, paler than usual. You look... haunted.'

'It's this damned case,' Sherlock said at last. 'It got too much, so I've disentangled myself.'

'Oh,' said Mrs Hudson. 'Oh, dear. Well, at least you might have a lovely new one waiting for you upstairs,' she added, nodding as a creaking floorboard indicated the presence of someone above them.

Sherlock just smiled wanly, hung up his coat and headed off up to his flat.

There was indeed a client on the landing. As Sherlock clambered upstairs, a young man stood from where he had been sitting on the second flight, an empty cup of tea in his hand.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said, with only the slightest hint of a question in his voice.

'Indeed,' said Sherlock, trying to look more confident and imposing than he felt. He thrust his key into the lock and fell more than walked into his flat. 'Come in.'

The man followed him, and sat in the armchair that Sherlock indicated.

'What can I help you with?' asked Sherlock, after the man had spent rather too long studying the furniture. 'And what is your name?'

'My name is Arthur Pendragon,' he replied, 'and I need help with pretty much everything.'


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft's office exuded organisation. Everything had a place, and was tucked into its place with the utmost precision. His two armchairs looked as if they had been freshly groomed. The fireplace was immaculate, the desk shining; even the rows of folders had been sorted into rainbow, and then alphabetical, order. If Sherlock had spent a couple of days tidying 221B, it would have almost looked like this.

It was certainly a strange place to be discussing the imminent destruction of England.

Merlin and Mycroft were on their second cup of tea, and Mycroft, though still a little doubtful about the whole matter, had agreed that precautions needed to be taken. He then moved on to the second point for discussion – the two cases.

Mycroft had somehow got hold of all of the details from both. He had read them numerous times over, and they were now imprinted on his mind. Therefore he hesitated a moment, and then said:

'Magic exists.'

'Yes,' replied Merlin, after a moment.

This was the one cog that seemed to be sticking a bit. Mycroft half-smiled, and sipped from his cup of tea. 'No doubt you could prove it. It is merely a – surprise.'

'Admittedly,' said Merlin, 'I thought it was as good as extinct. I haven't met another magician since 1956. And he wasn't a very good one.'

Mycroft furrowed his brow a little.

'Though magic has changed. Magic evolves. It isn't done in the same way as it was when I learnt it. No – when I perfected it. I never had to learn magic.' His eyes drifted a little round the room as, for a moment, a memory overtook him. 'Though I believe,' and he faltered, 'that I am still the most powerful magician in existence. I always have been. I don't mean to boast,' he added hurriedly. 'It's a curse more than anything else.'

Mycroft seemed to be only half-listening to him – not out of boredom, but merely confusion, and also a feeling that he was rambling a little too much – so Merlin fell silent again.

He looked towards the clock on the mantel. It was nearing twelve o'clock. He'd been here more than an hour. Not particularly long, perhaps, but when the world could end at any moment, one does become a little conscious of the passage of time. He was about to excuse himself – see where Sherlock had got to – when there was a _ping_ from his pocket, and he extracted a brick of a phone.

'Sorry,' he said automatically to Mycroft, opening the text message that had appeared on the screen.

 _Merlin. There's a man in the flat claiming he knows you. Says he's called Arthur Pendragon. SH_

The phone nearly slipped from his fingers, but Merlin managed to keep his composure just long enough to excuse himself and leave the room. Then he took off at a run.

* * *

It was one thing to be in the same room as an ancient magician. It was another to be in the same room as a legendary king.

Sherlock's knowledge of the story of King Arthur was sadly lacking, but his conversation with the man himself had rather filled him in on a lot of the details. He had to admit to being mildly fascinated, though a lot of it was a bit irrelevant given the current circumstances. It turned out that Arthur hadn't known where to find help, but had been directed towards Baker Street by someone who always tended to send dishevelled-looking fellows in that direction. (Which explained a lot, to be honest.)

At length a discussion of Merlin had come up; Sherlock's description of the boy had matched Arthur's exactly, and so he had sent for Merlin, not quite realising, perhaps, what a reaction this would elicit.

They had just then, after an hour of discussion, got onto the details of the case: Sherlock had meant to abandon it, but it seemed that he could no longer think of doing so. He explained everything to Arthur, who looked bewildered, but managed to keep up; then, whilst detailing the third (and most peculiar) murder, Sherlock handed over the photograph of the body, which did a better job of explaining than he could ever have done.

'I've seen this before,' Arthur said at once.

That was precisely what Merlin had said, on seeing the mutilated corpse. Sherlock shuddered a little.

'A – a long time ago: what year did you say it was?' Arthur asked. Sherlock told him. 'The witch Morgana –'

'Merlin's told me this bit,' Sherlock said, trying to disguise the fact that his heart had leapt. One person telling him such ridiculous theories was dismissible, improbable. But another confirming the same story –

'Where _is_ Merlin, anyway?' asked Arthur after a moment.

'He was at Mycroft's,' Sherlock said, 'but I texted him –'

Scarcely had he finished his sentence when they both heard a taxi pull up outside the door. Footsteps on the pavement pattered into the house, and someone came running up the stairs. Merlin did not hesitate to fling open the door to 221B and enter; his hurried pace was halted immediately at the sight of the figure in the second-best armchair.

This time he did drop his phone. Then, still staring at Arthur, he clung to Sherlock's chair and dropped to his knees. He covered his face with his hands but they both heard him break into sobs.


	9. Chapter 9

When Molly Hooper received the mutilated corpse, she was warned to brace herself for a bit of a shock, but that did little to diminish her gasp on seeing it. However, she held her composure admirably; when the officers had left the room, she began to examine it as if it was a perfectly ordinary cadaver, like the ones she saw every day. Her eyes were ever drawn to that face, however, and it was after quite a while of unsuccessfully trying to concentrate on the other features that she sighed, halted and studied the face in closer detail.

Nobody had told her much of the story behind this corpse, for no reasons other than she didn't need to know most of it. She also found that knowing little allowed her to view corpses from an unbiased stance. However, she knew that this one was an unusual case.

It was only when she turned over the arm that she saw the name _Merlin_ that had been burnt into the skin. At once, she remembered Sherlock's strange flatmate. The young man who had tried to convince her of the existence of magic. The young man who, doubtless through coincidence, shared a name with a great wizard of myth.

She smiled a little, and wondered what he had to do with this case. Curiosity overtook her for a moment, but, professional as she was, she abandoned her thoughts and returned to her study of the corpse.

She would perhaps have called the extra skin around the face a genetic mutation of some sort, an unfortunate, but perfectly natural, growth. She had however been informed that it was no such thing. She pinched the skin between her fingers, ran numerous simple tests on it – it was human skin. Rather discoloured, she had to admit. And it felt very new.

Very rapidly, she determined the cause of death as suffocation. The skin had grown so thickly over the poor man's nose and mouth that he would not have stood a chance – his death would have been very quick, which she supposed could only have been a comfort. She wondered if she was supposed to explain the growth, which of course she couldn't. She furrowed her brow, straightened, and decided to go and make a cup of tea.

John Watson was in the kitchen when she arrived. Of course he was. John's tea breaks always seemed to be at the same time as Molly's, which she chalked up to coincidence, but she couldn't be sure. Anyway, he was friendly, and she had got to know him quite well since he arrived a few weeks ago, so she enjoyed their little chats by the kettle before they disappeared off into entirely different departments.

Today, however, the kitchen was occupied by a third man, who was standing slightly to one side, holding a mug precariously in one hand, and typing on his phone with the thumb of the other. He was dressed somewhat scruffily, but wore a lanyard proclaiming that he worked for the hospital. Molly hadn't seen him before, so she greeted him in a friendly sort of manner.

He looked up, smiled lopsidedly, murmured a return greeting and went back to his phone.

'Who's that?' she mouthed to John Watson.

John shrugged. 'New guy. Don't know him.'

Molly shrugged in return and poured herself a cup of tea. She and John chatted briefly about mundane things – the weather mostly, they were British, after all – and then John apologised and said he really should get back to work.

Molly nodded, and took his mug; she rinsed both mugs off, then left them in the sink. She was about to leave the room herself when the other man strode past her. He brushed against her and she recoiled a little; he had left the room before she noticed that he had slipped a piece of paper into the pocket of her lab coat.

She unfurled this piece of paper, and was surprised to see that it had on it the name _Jim_ followed by a number. A light blush rose into her cheeks. The man hadn't been all that bad looking, she immediately found herself thinking. Automatically, she looked towards the door through which he had just left. A small smile spread across her face, and when she returned to the morgue, it was with something of a spring in her step.


	10. Chapter 10

**I shall begin by apologising quite profusely for the hiatus. To those who have persisted with this story - thank you SO MUCH! And as ever I would love to know what you think.**

* * *

It hadn't taken long for Merlin to compose himself. A couple of moments after his legs had given way, he had stood up once again with a beaming smile on his face, staring at Arthur as if he couldn't quite believe it. And it had only taken minutes for him to be chattering at twice the usual speed, expressing his immense, infinite joy at seeing his friend; he updated him on the most mundane things; and at last he went in for a hug, and was at first rejected, but then, after some hesitation on Arthur's part, he was squeezed more tightly than he might have liked to his friend's chest.

Sherlock watched all of this with distracted curiosity. He had to admit that it pained him, just a tiny bit, because Merlin was _his_ acquaintance – he hadn't thought that Merlin had any friends – and he hadn't counted on having to share him with someone else. But otherwise he found himself glancing towards his phone and waiting for the display of affection to subside.

Luckily for him, both Merlin and Arthur realised the urgency of the situation, and turned back to Sherlock just as the detective was rolling his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, thinking that nobody was looking at him. Arthur looked a bit indignant but Merlin just smiled a little.

'First question,' said Sherlock: 'what is King Arthur doing in 21st-century London?'

'That's the worrying thing,' said Merlin at once. 'Kilgharrah told me –'

'Kilgharrah?

'The Great Dragon.'

'Dragon,' said Sherlock flatly.

Merlin decided to pass over that particular detail. 'After Arthur – died – I was told that he was going to rise again. In England's great time of need.'

'Really?' asked Arthur, a little incredulous.

'Really.'

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. 'Then this is England's great time of need? You would have thought we would have noticed.'

'We have noticed, Sherlock!' cried Merlin. 'Morgana – or someone emulating Morgana – has done nothing less than declare war on the country. I don't know how long we have to prepare. Seeing as Arthur is here – probably not long.'

'Do you have a plan?' Sherlock asked mildly.

It was just as Merlin was making the most indignant of faces that Sherlock's phone beeped, for the moment distracting all of them. Sherlock glanced over at the screen, and, seeing that the message was from Mycroft, deigned to pick up the phone and look more closely at it.

 _Have you ever heard of Lord Sebastian Moran?_

Sherlock's thumb hesitated over the Google app; after a moment he replied:

 _He's an MP, isn't he?_

 _Peer of the realm, and Member of Parliament for the Conservative Party in -._

 _And?_

 _He's disappeared._

 _And?_

 _He lives on the same street as the first victim, he has an as of yet undetermined connexion with the second victim, and he was one of the witnesses to the death of the third victim._

Sherlock blinked. He trusted Mycroft to have found a valuable lead, but he wasn't quite sure what his brother wanted him to do. He recalled, vaguely, that Mycroft had been entrusted with the job of protecting the country from whatever threat it currently faced.

 _You will have to investigate that lead. I have a former King of England to deal with._

This he sent to his brother without context nor follow-up; then, turning to the others, he commented:

'Merlin, does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?'

Merlin shrugged. 'He's an MP... wasn't he Home Secretary at one point?... no, that was someone else... Why?'

'Mycroft thinks he has something to do with the murders. And he's disappeared.'

Merlin furrowed his brow. 'We're missing something. I'm sure we're missing something.'

'That much,' said Sherlock, a little maliciously despite himself, 'was evident.'

'Sebastian Moran,' Merlin murmured.

He might have pursued the thought further, had he not been interrupted by the minor inconvenience of the window shattering.

For a moment, time was frozen; there might have been an explosion, but none of them registered it. One moment there was a window-pane: the next, empty space and a cold breeze. It was so sudden, so spectacularly unexpected, that all present saw the entire thing happen in slow motion. The obvious action would have been for the window to shatter inwards. It didn't. As if it had merely given up on life, it collapsed from the top, creating a waterfall of glass shards that cascaded onto the carpet. Despite himself, Sherlock found himself wondering what Mrs Hudson would think. At last he managed to tear himself away from the window, to see Arthur, who had stood at the sound of shattering glass, back in the chair, having been thrown into it by the pure force of whatever had happened. Merlin, too, had staggered backwards. Perhaps Sherlock had also, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

It was over as quickly as it had begun, but it had not felt that way. Nobody spoke for half a minute. The first to react was Mrs Hudson, who, downstairs, pattered through her kitchen in a sort of panic. The second was not Sherlock, though the detective had recovered quickly from the shock, but Merlin.

The magician ran at once to the window, not seeming to notice the glass beneath his shoes. There was little left of the pane: a few fragments here and there in the window-frame. Half of the glass, it looked like, had fallen inwards. There remained to determine if the rest had gone onto the street. Therefore Merlin leant out of the window, and recoiled at once, letting out an involuntary cry.

'What?' asked Sherlock.

'We're under siege,' was Merlin's somewhat enigmatic reply.

'Under siege!' cried Arthur, joining him at the window. He had expected, at Merlin's warning, to look out and behold archers, platoons of men, siege-ladders – but the street was precisely as it was before. 'What do you mean?'

Sherlock came up behind them, and studied the scene, trying to work out Merlin's response from the magician's expression. At last he smiled humourlessly, and said: 'This is some sort of magical siege, I'm guessing.'

'It's _damned_ clever magic,' Merlin replied, almost overawed.

'What is?' asked Arthur.

'Look at the street,' Sherlock told him.

'It looks the same as ever,' Arthur replied.

'Precisely,' said Merlin.

Arthur looked between the detective and the magician, entirely confused; it took a while, but it eventually dawned on him.

'Nobody's reacted to the explosion...'

'Are you boys all right up there?'

Their thoughts were all interrupted by the concerned voice of Mrs Hudson, who had come upstairs whilst they were preoccupied, and who now stood outside 221B.

'Yes...' Sherlock replied. 'You had better come in.'

Mrs Hudson came in, and came over to the window, and Arthur resumed speaking, voicing what the others had already guessed.

'So... someone's done something that can only be detected by people inside this building? Put up... I don't know, a barrier? An invisible barrier?'

'Very good,' said Merlin, smiling at these stumbling guesses. 'That much, at least, is obvious from this.'

And putting his hand out of the window he knocked on thin air, producing a clear ringing sound like that from a tuning-fork.

'Clever,' he murmured again, 'very clever.'

Sherlock nodded. 'It would be a reasonable guess to say that we are thus trapped in here, and that this house is the only one affected. The solution would be for Merlin to find out the counter-spell, or something that would remove this barrier. Following that we can find whoever created it, and we shall presumably have the one responsible for the string of murders.'

He felt suddenly satisfied, and couldn't quite place why. Merlin was just about to follow his instructions – to counter this sudden powerful magic with, hopefully, something greater of his own – when Mrs Hudson gave a small cough, and, looking a little embarrassed, asked of them:

'Can somebody perhaps explain what exactly is going on?'


	11. Chapter 11

_Trapped by powerful magic in 221 Baker Street. Lead with Moran possibly not current priority. Please advise. SH_

Mycroft shook his head and glanced briefly towards Anthea, who was pretending to be absorbed in her work, but in truth was extremely interested in the whole business. Perhaps she didn't realise how perfectly mad it all was. How improbable.

His demeanour remained unruffled, however, and, though he doubted they could do anything against magic or whatever it was, he sent two of his men out to Sherlock's aid. Then he returned to the page he was scrutinising on his laptop, which concerned Sebastian Moran; the image of the man depicted him with a poster from the last election, reading: _Vote Conservative for a Better Future._ It was very generic. Mycroft hadn't actually met him, but he knew that by all accounts he was a fairly dull and fairly committed MP. The very fact that his outside image was so dull was the point that roused Mycroft's curiosity, considering his vague but definite connexions with the three murders, and the fact that he had been reported absent from a moderately important debate in the Commons this morning.

He had been, in some way, present at all of them. He'd been the first to raise the alarm over concerns about strange noises coming from the first man's house. His story had thus far held out. He had recently had a bit of an email dispute with the second victim, one of his constituents and a staunch supporter of the opposite side. Though he was a suspect, he didn't seem to have much against him in this case either. And he had been present at the death of the third. A pure spectator, as confirmed by the other witnesses, who had rather heartlessly done nothing to help, but otherwise seemed to have played a harmless role.

It was evident by now that the three murders were intricately connected. Mycroft was convinced he had found a lead in Lord Sebastian Moran, but he needed to do a lot of work before he could even begin to take it seriously. And he wasn't sure he had time for that. He had a country to defend.

He ran his hands down his face, leaned back in his seat and looked over at Anthea again. She was chewing on the end of a pen and looking intrigued.

'Lord Sebastian Moran,' she said, suddenly, looking up from her own laptop, 'was allegedly in two different locations at the same time, this Thursday last.'

'What?'

Anthea shrugged. 'It's a weird case. I was looking for weird things. And _this_ –' She tapped a couple of times on the mousepad. 'This is weird. I'm surprised nobody's noticed it already.' Here she looked at Mycroft almost accusingly.

'He's probably making up for not being here at all today.' Mycroft's dry joke sank like a lead balloon. 'I imagine that he would have been required in Parliament on Thursday?'

'Yes. He was present in Parliament. He was registered as having voted _aye_ on the matter at hand. There are photographs of him leaving the Commons.'

'It was a bill about defence spending, was it not?'

'It wasn't too important. Something to do with current inflation levels...' Anthea scrolled down the page that she was scrutinising. 'The problem is... he was also in a cafeteria in Soho.'

Mycroft stood, and came to look at whatever she was looking at. It was a ream of data from a security camera somewhere; the video was at the top of the page, and depicted a coffee-shop. Mycroft squinted. At a table in the corner, on his phone, was a man whom Mycroft recognised instantly as the one they were currently discussing. He looked at the time-stamp. 11.25. Voting on the bill had occurred just a couple of minutes later. He trusted Anthea to have investigated forgery, or any other things that might have rendered this time-stamp inaccurate.

'How did you find this?'

'He emailed one of his constituents. A reply to an issue... also nothing important: just confirming that he would continue to fight to protect a local park from housing developments. Anyway, the email was sent at a time when he should have been concentrating on whatever was being said in the Commons; I investigated and found it to have been sent not from the Palace of Westminster, but from the Argyll Street Costa. That would seem to have been confirmed by this CCTV image. I can show you the near-contemporaneous picture of him in Parliament.'

'I believe you.' Mycroft furrowed his brow and said nothing for a while. He didn't like to admit that he wasn't sure what was going on. 'So are you suggesting that this is somehow connected – I don't know, with the magic that Merlin claims is behind this whole business?'

Anthea made to reply: but just as she opened her mouth, she was interrupted by a disturbance behind them; they turned, startled, to see by the window a windswept man in a dark coat who could not have come in the door without them noticing. He stepped into the light. They recognised the dull but unmistakeable features of Lord Sebastian Moran.

'You and your secretary are a _tour de force_ , Mycroft Holmes,' he said. 'Just a shame you don't notice what's right in front of you.' And, with a small smile, he pulled a pistol from beneath the cover of his trench-coat.

Mycroft jumped up, reached for his desk drawer and withdrew his own pistol, which he hadn't before needed to use in the confines of his office, for fear of damaging the wallpaper.

'I should tread carefully, Moran,' he said.

'Oh! I do not intend to hurt you.'

And suddenly he was gone: Mycroft blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Lord Sebastian Moran was no longer in front of him. Astounded, he glanced at Anthea, who had not yet broken her composure, but who, catching sight of something in the corner of her eye, turned towards the door.

He was there. Lord Sebastian Moran had vanished from beside the window, and re-appeared at the other side of the room. He was still holding his pistol, but had lowered it a little, and was smirking.

'Caught you by surprise, hmm?' He laughed. 'Well, this is just the beginning. I assure you that I have many more tricks up my sleeve. My dear Mycroft, you who like to think you are powerful... I'd like to see you try to get the better of magic.'


End file.
